


Once In A Very Blue Moon

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Horror, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2007-09-22
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: John spends some time in hell, and the YED shows him more than he ever wanted to know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** There is angst, fear, het and slash and a very sad Pappa John.

Once in a Very Blue Moon 

 

 

It wasn’t what he expected, Hell. It wasn’t all fire and brimstone and gnashing of teeth and torture and the color red. It was this: a dingy room with a table and hard chairs and a one-way mirror. It was an interrogation room, a room for questions and confessions. A room full of fear and sweat; and it was the last place he expected to be.

 

It seemed like only moments ago he was whispering to his son to take care of his youngest, whispering too his darkest secret, a secret he’d kept for all those years. His life was over; their lives, still in the fight, still in the hunt. Maybe they were the ones in Hell. Maybe he’d left them there. Maybe he’d made the wrong choice. If he’d let Dean go, he’d be alone, he knew, because Sam would never forgive him. Sam would never forgive him for not being the man he could have been, not being the father he could have been. For not being able to have a conversation with his son that was without anger and frustration. And at what? Sam’s need for normal? Sam’s wanting to be the kind of man he wasn’t? What a damn fool he’d been.

 

And Dean? The soldier. The fighter. His protector. His son. The only one who loved him unconditionally. A love he knew he didn’t deserve. Dean’s heart was stronger than anything he’d ever seen. More powerful than all the evil he’d ever witnessed. If he’d let Dean go, at least the burden would be gone for both of them.

 

But he couldn’t leave Sammy alone. He never could.

 

John Winchester put his head in his hands and wept.

 

 

The demon walked in, footfalls echoing in the sparse room, closing the door behind him with a sickening click. 

 

John lifted his head, face tear-stained, and stared at this thing, this thing he’d fought all his life, this thing that was everything evil incarnate. This thing that had killed his soul a long time ago, so what was left to give? 

 

“So, John,” the demon began, tilting his head, bones making a cracking sound, “Not what you expected? Not dark enough? Hot enough?” The demon lifted his head, neck torturously long, and laughed. 

 

Leaning over the table, suddenly serious, suddenly face-to-face with his captive, the demon spoke in staccato sentences, “This is what I’ve been waiting for, John Winchester. Waiting maybe a thousand years. Before you were born, I knew you. You would be the one to bring Sam to me. Sweet, sweet Sammy. Your sweet Sammy. Little boy lost. Prodigal son. Should I go on?”

 

John, eyes glazed with surrender, spoke slowly, “Can we just get on with it?”

 

The demon, yellow eyes shining, lips curling into a smile, sat on the edge of the table, and cupped John’s face with cold hard fingers, “Patience, my son, patience. We’ve only just begun.” 

 

John didn’t have the strength to wince. 

 

The demon paced the room; folding and unfolding his arms, yellow eyes shining and dimming, face contorting into smiles and smirks and darkness and then the color gray. “I don’t know where to begin, John Winchester. I just don’t know where to begin. I have such stories to tell you, such revelations. So much about your pathetic little life that you never knew. So much, so much sugary goodness, John Winchester, I can barely contain myself. But, since you are such a simple man, I’ll start at the beginning, so you don’t get confused.”

 

The mirror in the room appeared to shatter, but there was no noise, no glass, just the image of cracks and the slow motion of his reflection breaking into pieces. 

 

Where the mirror was, a screen rolled down, scrolling into the room, making a sound like a baby crying.

 

“Sound effects,” the demon laughed, “Just a little foreshadowing, just to make it interesting.”

 

The stutter of an invisible projector, the flutter of light and dark on the screen, the low murmur of sound trying to make itself heard. 

 

There on the screen was Mary, his beautiful Mary, looking so young and sweet that John wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Her image didn’t belong here. Mary was too good for this place, too good for him, too good even to remember. 

 

But there she was, in her nightgown, smiling at him, smiling at his image on the screen.

 

He watched with a mix of horror and fascination as his Mary undressed in front of him. Sliding down his body, his disembodied image on the screen, covering him in kisses, suckling his skin, smiling into him, moaning his name over and over. Mary took him into her mouth, making obscene noises. Noises that echoed in the gray room, reminding John exactly where he was. Her head bobbed up and down, and John watched as she made love to him with her mouth. His Mary. His eyes welled with tears. 

 

She slid her mouth away, and moved up his body sinuously. Straddling him, rising up to align herself, she moved down, moving onto him, moving him into her. She gasped as she threw her head back, and began rocking. Rocking and moaning and John watched himself push her hair away from her eyes, looking at her with such need, such want, such feral rawness, and then flipping her over and pushing himself into her deeper and deeper until her moans were whimpers and her gasps were pants and she begged him for more and she begged him to stop and they came together there on the bed. The bed where Sammy was made. The night that Sammy was made. 

 

He remembered.

 

He expected the film to stop. He expected this part of the torture to be over. He expected to feel the tears stinging behind his eyes.

 

But the film continued.

 

He watched as Mary rose from the bed and went into the bathroom. He watched as he - the image of him on the screen - fell asleep.

 

But the film continued. Mary walked into Dean’s room, checking on her son’s sleeping form, gently rubbing his cheek as she smiled down at him. “You’re gonna have a baby brother, Dean, what do you think of that?” 

 

Returning to bed, Mary fell into sleep, breathing deep and sated.

 

Moments passed and John looked questioningly at the demon.

 

“Wait for it…” the demon hissed.

 

The screen went black, then lit up with a bright yellow, the same yellow as the demon’s eyes. John watched in horror at Mary’s sleeping form, watched as her mouth opened and blackness filled her, blackness swirled sickeningly into her, black powder like gun powder, yet silent. Still sleeping, he watched as her mouth closed, and then he saw it. In the corner of the screen. The demon. The same yellow-eyed demon now standing before him.

 

“You see, John,” the demon whispered, his mouth grazing John’s ear, “Sammy’s not your son. He’s mine. My Sammy. My sweet, sweet Sammy. My creation. My own. You were just the conduit. Just the preamble. Just the preshow. The opening act. And now Sammy’s gonna make the world mine. We’re gonna take over the world, and then we’re gonna take over Hell.” 

 

The demon laughed the laugh of the insane, the laugh of the maniacal. The laugh of the dead. He left the room, footfalls echoing, the door shutting behind him with a sickening click.

 

John Winchester put his head in his hands and wept.

 

 

John waited for minutes, hours, days – he couldn’t tell. Time in Hell was like water – immeasurable, falling over him, drowning him. And he’d expected fire.

 

The demon finally returned, this time carrying a newspaper with him, tossing the paper onto the table in front of John, pointing to the front page, saying, “Read.”

 

John read the article:

 

William “Bill” Harvelle, proprietor of Harvelle’s Roadhouse, 

Is still missing, three weeks after leaving for a hunting trip with

His friend, John Winchester. Authorities continue to search for 

Harvelle, having no leads at this point. If anyone has any 

Information regarding the whereabouts of Harvelle, they

Should contact the Conifer County Sheriff’s Department…

 

John stopped reading, and looked wearily up at the demon, “Yeah, but Bill came back from that trip. Safe and sound. It was years later that he died. Why are you showing me this?”

 

“Because,” the demon began, “Something strange and interesting happened during that three and a half weeks that your best friend was gone. Something very interesting. Certainly you haven’t forgotten, have you? How could you forget that one night of, how should I say, comfort, with your best friend’s wife?” The demon laughed.

 

The screen scrolled down again.

 

There was Ellen. Sobbing. John holding her, reassuring her. Ellen holding on to him like a lifeline. And then she was kissing him, rubbing herself against him, undressing him, making love to him with fierceness, anger. She shouted out her husband’s name when she came. 

 

John hung his head in shame, “I didn’t mean to do it…it just happened. We were both so afraid of losing him. All we had was each other…”

 

The demon eyed John with disgust, “No need for groveling, John. This is part of why you’re here. I love this! Rivals some things I’ve done in my time. You make me jealous. You should be so proud…ah, and speaking of pride, I have something else to show you.”

 

The demon showed John a picture of Jo Harvelle when she was a baby. “Remember her? Joanna Beth Harvelle. Cute kid. And, John, she’s such a beauty now.” The demon licked his lips with a forked tongue. 

 

“She’s all Ellen has left of Bill,” John said.

 

The demon laughed, neck extending like a snake. “No, John, she is not all Ellen has left of Bill Harvelle. All Ellen has left of her husband is memories. Just those sweet, sweet memories. Because that one night you shared with Ellen? Well, John, that’s how Jo was made. I must say, I was so proud of you. I had nothing to do with that. Just hormones and timing. So proud. Yes, Joanna Beth Harvelle is your daughter, John. And Ellen knew it. Never told Bill. Just kept the guilt with her. Still does. Never told anyone. Probably never will.”

 

Thoughts spun through John’s head. Thoughts about family and missing out on Jo’s childhood. Thoughts about shame and bad choices and betrayal. Thoughts about the way Ellen looked at him when he returned from that last hunt with Bill. The one Bill didn’t survive. The way Jo, just a little thing, pounded on his chest in anger. Thoughts about his sons never knowing about their half-sister, missing yet another piece of family.

 

“Family,” the demon said with a hiss, “the thing you thought you were keeping together. Little do you know. Which makes this next part even sweeter.” The demon cupped John’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look at those yellow eyes. “You see, John, you missed out on Jo’s childhood. But not Dean’s. Not Sam’s. You brought them up right, didn’t you John? Brought them up on gunpowder and fear, hunts and motels, moving from town to town, never putting down any roots. You thought you were keeping them safe, right, John? Safe from little ole’ me. You thought you were doing right by them? But what about that, John? What about that?”

 

John waited. “What?” He asked, fearful of what was to come.

 

“Well, John.” The demon spoke slowly, drawing out his words. “This is the best part. Let me set it up for you. Dean was Sam’s caretaker, his protector. Hell, Dean practically raised Sam. Made Sam feel safer than you ever did. Sam was always afraid of you, John. But Dean? He kept Sam safe, reassured him, bandaged his wounds, his hurts, his heart. Dean showed Sam a love you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I don’t know, John, I can’t quite put my finger on it. But, here again, you made me proud. It was a beautiful set-up, really. The loneliness, the fear, the moving around, never having his mother’s love, poor, poor, sweet, sweet Sammy. You see John; he turned to the only one who ever loved him to fulfill all his needs. After the unfortunate incident with Jess, Sam turned to Dean. Just take a look.”

 

The screen lit up, flashing gray and white, the invisible projector stuttering to life again.

 

And suddenly John was looking at his two sons walking into some dingy motel room. Neon from the sign outside casting a green glow across the shadows in the room. He watched and winced as Sam slammed Dean into the wall, using his larger size to pin the older man to the wall. Looking at Sam’s back, John expected him to punch his brother. He could hear no words between them, and he watched, frozen, as Dean’s hands gripped his brother’s back, rubbing, caressing, and then undressing Sam. His baby boy. 

 

John tried to look away, but the demon held his head front and center, straight at the screen.

 

As the film continued, Dean turned them around, pushed Sam to the wall, and dropped to his knees, grabbing at Sam’s belt, undoing his jeans, taking him roughly into his mouth. Sam began making these noises, these pleading, whimpering noises, and John was beyond horrified. Anger rose in his chest.

 

“Liar!” John stood, shoving the table, crashing it to the floor, “Fucking liar!”

 

The demon laughed. “No, John. This is true, all true. Just so sweet. I didn’t even have to intervene. They did this themselves. You taught Dean well, John. Taught him to take care of his brother. And see? Up there on the screen? Looks like he’s doing a hell of a job to me. Those fucking lips wrapped around Sam’s cock. Oh, John, just too sweet.”

 

“Stop!” John fell to his knees, covering his face, trying to hide from the images on the screen, trying to block out the sounds of his sons doing things brothers should never do. 

 

The demon whispered “Does it make it any easier knowing they’re only half brothers?”

 

John was weeping now, so full of guilt and remorse and questioning every decision he ever made when his sons were young. Wondering how he could have stopped this, how he could have seen it coming so he could have stopped it. Wondering why. Wondering how this perverted kind of love could have ever happened. Wondering what he could have done differently.

 

The demon’s laugh roared through the room. “Johnny, my boy, it was meant to be! Don’t you see? Your boys were in love. Sweet thing, love. Makes people do crazy things.”

 

The film continued, the demon again forcing John to watch. To watch and to hear as Sam moaned in pleasure, as Sam came in his brother’s mouth, as he jerked his brother off, saying his name like a prayer. To watch as Dean looked at Sam with lust and pity and need and something like adoration. To watch as the two brothers sank into the same bed, naked and sated, wrapped around each other, creating an image of one body, one whole. 

 

Darkness. The screen went dark; the room went dark, still. For ticks of the clock, minutes, hours, days. Time was like water.

 

John was lifted off the floor, settled into a comfortable seat, and the lights came up in the room, which was now transformed into what looked like a theater. The demon sat beside him, huge tub of popcorn on his lap. “Want some?” The demon asked. John looked into the tub to see maggots crawling around in the butter. John gagged.

 

The demon laughed louder and louder still. “This is the main feature, John. Everything else was just trailers, pre-show, advertisements. This is the big show. You’re gonna like this. Or not. But I am. I’ve been waiting for this for years.”

 

The huge screen lit up, all vivid color. John watched in horror as the images of his sons, larger than life, did things he couldn’t have imagined. Sam was pushing himself into Dean, rocking into him, cursing and praising and fucking his brother. Sam was saying things John desperately didn’t want to hear.

 

“DeanDeanDean, god, you are so fucking tight. So good for me, baby, so good. Waiting all day for this. Want to fuck you so hard. Let me do it. Don’t make me hold back, please, baby.” Dean’s eyes were glassy, whether from pain or lust, John wasn’t sure. Dean nodded and Sam pummeled into him over and over, forcing his brother up further on the bed, pushing him into the mattress. The sheer force of it made John wince. Tears were flowing freely. John’s tears. Dean’s tears. Sam’s eyes were closed in pleasure. He shouted Dean’s name when he came, head thrown back, eyes opening briefly, shining a sickly yellow. He allowed his body to cover his brother’s, whispering into Dean’s ear, “Baby, so good, so fucking good, you are so good to me, let me do what I want, what I need. Nobody else. Don’t ever fucking leave me.” Dean nodded against Sam’s shoulder, tears still falling, face showing fear and need and acceptance. Sam cradled Dean’s face, looking at him lovingly now, tenderly. “Don’t want to hurt you, Dean, never want to hurt you. Need you.” Dean nodded again, silent, submissive. Sam covered his mouth with kisses, apologies, mending wounds with his mouth, making promises and plans.

 

John’s heart fell. He felt as defeated as Dean looked, as hurt and sad and now coming to a place of acceptance. Acceptance of what he had done, what he hadn’t done. How terribly he’d fucked up his son’s lives.

 

The screen faded to black.

 

The demon smiled in the dimly lit theater. “But wait, there’s more,” he whispered in John’s ear.

 

Flutter of film and the screen was bright again. Bright with the image of Jo Harvelle, all smiles and blond hair swinging, all sweetness and light. Looking at Dean across the Roadhouse. Smiling at Dean. Silly young toothy grin. And Dean smiling back, more lustful and smirking. 

 

The demon yawned, “Boring.” The film seemed to fast-forward, and John could see Dean and Jo dancing and kissing and going into a back room at the Roadhouse.

 

“Just in case you were wondering, John,” the demon said as the film flashed forward, “Ellen was out of town visiting a sick friend and little Sammy was sick with a cold, holed up alone in a motel room, miserable. Yeah, I guess I deserve part of the credit for this one. I kinda helped the set-up. But the rest? All destiny. You do believe in destiny, don’t you, John?”

 

John didn’t answer, made no move, just sat in surrender and watched the screen as Dean made love to Jo. Moving into her gently, whispering, moving his hands over her body as if she were porcelain. “So beautiful, Jo, god you are so beautiful, so soft, I’ve wanted you for so long,” Dean murmured to her. Jo, silent, continued moving up to meet Dean’s thrusts. Dean looked deep into her eyes. “This is our secret. Just the two of us. God, I need this.” Dean moved slow and purposeful, kissing Jo’s neck and mouth and shoulders, nestling against her, rubbing his hands up and down her body as he pushed into her. Jo moaned and came against him. Dean quickly followed, whispering her name over and over. 

 

“So sweet,” The demon hissed. “So much wincesty goodness. I hardly know what to do with myself. If this continues, Jo and Dean might make another generation of fucked-up Winchesters. Of course, with the incest factor, that baby might have eleven toes. No matter. More fun for me!” 

 

The room went dark. Ticks of the clock. Minutes. Hours. Days. Time like water.

 

John couldn’t stop weeping.

 

 

The End.


End file.
